CHAPTER 5
The knock came first. Not the door. Not the intercom.
Just knuckles on wood, soft and hesitant, the kind of knock someone gives when they're not sure they're allowed to be knocking at all.
It filtered down through the floorboards above the panic room, through the concrete and the steel, muffled to near-nothing.
I heard it anyway. I'd been awake for an hour.
The panic room had no windows, so morning was a matter of trust—trust that the clock on the nightstand hadn't lied, that the ventilation system cycling on meant the bar above was warming with sunrise, that Cole's breathing beside me had shifted from the deep rhythm of sleep to something shallower.
His arm still draped across my waist. His face was half-buried in the pillow, the scar through his eyebrow catching the dim glow of the fern's grow light.
Six-fifteen. My shift at the hospital didn't start until noon.
The knock came again, slightly louder. Marcus, I thought. Waking up in the studio, realizing he was still here, still broke, still the brother who'd watched his sibling fuck a woman on a bartop and been told he couldn't touch. Coming downstairs to face the day.
Cole stirred. His arm tightened around me, then relaxed. "Someone's at the door."
"I know."
"What time is it?"
"Early." I turned onto my side, facing him. The sheet slipped to my waist. His eyes tracked the movement, still heavy-lidded with sleep but waking fast. "Marcus, probably. Wanting breakfast. Wanting to talk. Wanting something."
"Marcus can wait." He reached for me, his hand finding my hip beneath the sheet. "Come here."
"In a minute." I pressed a kiss to his chest—the ridge of an old burn scar, the flat plane of his sternum, the dusting of dark hair that trailed downward. "I want to do something first."
His breath caught. "What?"
Instead of answering, I slid lower. The sheet came with me, pooling at the foot of the bed, and the cool air of the panic room raised goosebumps along my arms. Cole's body was warm beneath my hands.
His stomach tensed as I kissed my way down—the hollow beneath his ribcage, the trail of hair below his navel, the jut of his hipbone where I'd gripped him the night before.
"Mara." His voice had gone rough. "You don't have to—"
"I know." I looked up at him from beneath my lashes. The pendant lights from the bar filtered through the ventilation grates, striping his body in gold. "I want to."
The third knock, louder now. Insistent. Cole's jaw tightened.
"Ignore it," I said. "He'll figure it out."
I took him in my mouth.
The sound he made was half groan, half exhale—a release of tension he'd been carrying since the moment Marcus had walked through the alley door the night before.
His hand found the back of my head, not pushing, just resting there, his fingers threading through my hair with a gentleness that made my chest ache.
He was already half-hard. The taste of him was clean skin and salt, the faint musk of our sex from the night before still clinging to his body.
I took my time. Slow strokes with my tongue along the underside of his shaft, a teasing circle around the head, the soft suction that made his hips twitch beneath me.
My left hand braced against his thigh, feeling the muscle jump under my palm.
"Jesus." The word came out strangled. "Mara, that's—"
I hollowed my cheeks and took him deeper.
His head fell back against the pillow. The cords of his neck stood out, and his fingers tightened in my hair, not guiding but gripping—the reflexive response of a man who'd spent years controlling everything and was learning, slowly, to let go.
The fern on the nightstand rustled in the draft from the vent. The clock clicked to 6:17.
Above us, Marcus knocked again. Four times this time. Rhythmic. Almost like a code.
Cole's hips bucked. "He's not going to stop."
"Then let him knock." I pulled off long enough to speak, my lips brushing the slick head of his cock. "Let him hear."
"You're evil."
"You love it."
"I love you." The words came without hesitation now—no pause, no careful consideration. Just fact. The same way he might say the bar opens at seven or the walk-in needs a new compressor. "I love you, and you're going to kill me."
I took him back into my mouth and didn't answer.
My rhythm built slowly. The way I'd learned he liked it—varied pressure, unexpected pauses, the wet slide of tongue and lips working in tandem.
His breathing grew ragged. The hand in my hair trembled.
I could feel him straining toward release, his thighs rigid beneath my arm, his abdomen clenching with each stroke.
"Close," he warned. "Mara, I'm—you should—"
I didn't pull off. I took him as deep as I could, my throat relaxing around him, my hand moving in counterpoint at the base of his shaft. His whole body went taut.
"Mara—"
He came with a groan that was almost pained, his release spilling across my tongue in hot pulses. I swallowed once, twice, keeping him in my mouth until the last shudder passed through him. His fingers uncurled from my hair. His chest heaved.
The knock came again. Five beats this time. Shave and a haircut. Two bits.
I released him gently and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. "I think he's getting impatient."
Cole stared at the ceiling, still catching his breath. "I think you've rendered me incapable of caring."
"Good." I crawled up his body and kissed his jaw. "That was the goal."
He turned his head, catching my mouth in a real kiss—soft and searching, the kind that tasted of intimacy more than urgency. When he pulled back, his eyes were clearer. "You okay?"
"Better than okay." I stretched, my body still sore in pleasant ways from the night before. "I've been wanting to do that since the first time you kissed me."
"Why didn't you?"
"Because I was scared." The admission came easier than I'd expected. "Scared of wanting you too much. Scared of what it meant." I traced the scar through his eyebrow with my thumb. "I'm not scared anymore."
He caught my wrist and pressed a kiss to my palm. "You're remarkable."
"I'm hungry. And your brother is going to knock a hole in the bar's floor if we don't answer soon."
Cole laughed—a real laugh, full-throated and unguarded. It transformed his face, smoothing the worry lines around his eyes, erasing the exhaustion that had settled there after Marcus's return. He looked younger. Lighter.
"Fine," he said. "Let's go feed the prodigal brother."
We dressed in comfortable silence. Cole's jeans from the night before, a fresh shirt from the drawer beneath the bed.
My own clothes—the sweater I'd retrieved from the back bar, the jeans I'd left unbuttoned, underwear I'd abandoned somewhere on the bar floor the night before.
The walk of shame from the panic room to the bar was becoming routine.
Cole keyed in the code and pushed the heavy door open.
The stairwell was dim, lit only by the emergency exit signs, and our footsteps on the metal treads echoed in the enclosed space.
At the top of the stairs, the bar spread out before us—the long sweep of the walnut bartop, the leather stools, the pendant lights still glowing from the night before.
Marcus stood at the alley door, his fist raised mid-knock. He froze when he saw us.
"Oh," he said. "You're awake."
"Observant as always." Cole crossed to the front door and unlocked it, letting in a sliver of gray morning light. "You can stop knocking now."
Marcus lowered his hand. The bruise on his cheekbone had deepened overnight, purpling at the edges.
He'd changed clothes—or at least he'd found a clean shirt somewhere in the studio, a faded Eagles tee that hung loose on his frame.
His hair was damp, like he'd splashed water on his face before coming downstairs.
"I thought maybe you two had—" He gestured vaguely. "Died. Or something."
"Or something." I leaned against the bar, folding my arms. The walnut was cool through my sweater. "Coffee?"
"God, yes."
Cole was already moving toward the espresso machine. The routine was automatic now—beans ground, portafilter tamped, the hiss of steam and the rich scent of dark roast filling the air. He pulled three shots without asking, sliding two across the bar toward me and Marcus.
"You want milk?" I asked Marcus.
"Black's fine." He wrapped both hands around the demitasse like it was a lifeline. "I didn't sleep much."
"Neither did we."
His gaze flicked to me, then to Cole, then back to his coffee. "I figured. The walls in the studio aren't exactly soundproof."
Heat crept up my neck, but I didn't look away. "You were warned."
"I was." He took a sip of espresso, grimaced at the bitterness. "I'm not complaining. Just—observing. You two are, uh. Loud."
Cole snorted. "You're one to talk. I remember you and Lisa in Mom's guest room at Thanksgiving. The turkey wasn't the only thing getting basted."
Marcus choked on his coffee. "That was one time."
"Once was enough. I couldn't look at cranberry sauce for a year."
The banter was familiar—the rhythm of brothers who'd spent decades learning exactly where to poke to draw blood, and exactly how hard to press before the wound became real. Marcus's shoulders loosened incrementally. Some of the tension drained from his jaw.
"So," he said, setting down the empty demitasse. "What's the plan?"
"The plan?" Cole leaned against the back bar, crossing his arms. "The plan is you work. The drywall in the basement needs replacing. The walk-in cooler's been making a sound I don't like. There's a leak under the prep sink that's been there since we opened."
"I meant the plan for me. Long-term."
"That is the long-term plan. You work, you stay sober, you pay off your debts." Cole's voice was steady but not unkind. "After that, we'll see."
"And if I can't stay sober?"
"Then you go to meetings. There's one at the community center on Wednesdays. I already checked."
Marcus stared at his brother. "You checked?"